


Sensitive Hearing

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Strong Language, mentions of depression, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: The boys have their patience tested, and react to a partner that cries when they shout.





	1. Noctis

“Noct-.”

“No! It’s enough! I don’t want to make anymore-!”

The broadsword flying past his side should’ve been a warning. It was a warning. One he knew all too well. Noctis, who had been walking away, turned on his heels and warped right next to Gladio, immediately taking a swing at the ever-quick giant. A burst of crystals put a weapon back in his hand in the instant before a sword could swing threateningly close to his neck. Gladio backed away and raised the blade in his centre stance, ready for any blow that could be sent his way.

Noctis’ breathing was ragged, desperate, as he flew at his shield, sparring partner and friend. It had taken all week to rile him up enough to spar, and Gladio was now regretting the choice. Insisting on his training was a complex issue. His physical health left nothing to be desired; physically he was capable. Training had to continue, and it could’ve provided some relief, some escape from his mind for an hour or two.

However, mentally… It had been one of those days. Weeks. Months.

Taxing. Tough. Draining. It wasn’t something he could, nor would, describe. It was something he felt, more than anything else at times. These weeks left him exhausted and hell mend those who provoked him during them. Gladio was cursing his own impatience with his friend. _You couldn’t have just waited until he was a little more on top of things, could you?_

“Noct, you’ve gotta-,” he began, keeping his gravelly tone as even and low as he could. He was bordering on gentle, but the other was having none of it. Noctis punctuated his every raging sentence with another strike towards Gladio.

“I can’t! Okay?! I can’t! What don’t you get about that?! You don’t- you wouldn’t understand! It’s not like you give a shit! Why would you?!”

His attacks grew clumsy but were still powerful enough that Gladio saw fit to summon a shield. Noctis was trying everything; swords, daggers, lances, anything. The weapons fizzed into his hands in bursts of blue, only to be sent flying towards his opponent before another was summoned.

“Noct.” There was warning in his tone this time. Still, he stayed even, despite the constant barrage of attacks on the other side of his shield. “Slow down, you’re gonna-.”

“What?! Fuck up again?! I know! I know, okay?! I’m gonna fuck everything up and I’m gonna hurt people and all that shit but I don’t care anymore! Nothing matters anymore!”

He brought a broadsword crashing onto the shield with a loud clang. Gladio gritted his teeth behind what was surely now dented metal. Enough.

He gave a short burst, forcing the shield against Noctis’ heaving chest and sending him a few feet backwards. Landing on the flat of his back only enraged him more. Weapons burst into his hands, changing as quickly as they appeared. Focus had left him; tranquillity had left and every feeling, but this, had left him. He cursed and threw the daggers in his hands away in violent bursts of crystals.

The deep, but muted sigh and heavy boots that moved carefully towards him made his jaw clench. A tanned, outstretched hand was the last straw.

“I don’t need-!” he growled bitterly, jumping to his feet before storming from the training hall.

He threw the door open and marched, slamming himself into the first side room he passed. It was dark, and quiet. He could blend in with that.

The hitch in your breath had to fight a tightening throat, but it was enough to reveal your location.

You’d heard all of it. You’d heard the shaking rage in his voice, the rasp that days of crying or silence gave him and the raw venom he spat in the full knowledge that he’d regret it later. Especially when Gladio would not only accept his apology but offer one of his own. You’d heard the crescendo of steel and the dull thud of a body tired in every way.

That had been enough for you. The tears had dragged heat over cold skin. You made for the nearest storage closet and hid there, safer in the quiet darkness.

And now he was here with you, locked onto you with drowning eyes. It took him a moment to recognise you in the darkness, but he knew your silhouette well. His shoulders dropped when he realised.

It took you a minute to acknowledge the need, and another to work up the courage. You took a careful step closer, to see how he’d react. It was only once you’d wrapped your arms around him that he finally broke. His hands fisted in your shirt, clinging to you as his tears soaked your shoulder. You ran a hand through his hair slowly and hushed him through your own quieter tears.


	2. Prompto

Technicolour flashed sporadically through the smoky air. The dancefloor was a mess of bodies, limbs, raised glasses and hands, and you were in the thick of it.

Your partner for the night, and most other nights, was none other than sunshine incarnate. Prompto Argentum. Normally you’d have politely declined the offer to go out clubbing. Too many people, too much noise, drunk people could be a bit…much. The list of excuses was endless and changing. However, you’d seen the dampening of rejection on his face one too many times and had decided to indulge him. Just this once.

So here you were, dancing your heart out with the ball of energy you were proud and somewhat bewildered to call your boyfriend. Life was good.

Until you were pushed to the side with another dozen people as two huge men took hold of each other’s collars and exchanged dangerous glares. You couldn’t hear the taunts one spat at the other, but you heard the roars when they began to shout. You felt sick. The bass beats of the club may have been pounding in your chest, but the tearing bellows of their argument were already threatening to rip a cry from you. You swallowed it back down just before the first punch was thrown.

Bodies you didn’t know were pressing against you, crushing you in a sober embrace of elbows, shoulders, hips. A bottle flew over your heads, making Prompto and a few other, more sober, patrons duck. Someone took your hand and tugged insistently. You were rooted to the spot, eyes filling as the argument intensified. The music was still deafening. You were swimming in the small, turbulent crowd, deaf and blind in the continuing sensory attack of the club.

“Babe! Come on!” he shouted next to your ear, piercing the silence. Panic was lining the blue of his eyes, rattling his voice as it left him.

Your head shot to him, shaken from your stifling haze, and you nodded just as he shouted again.

“Let’s go!”

His hand stayed right on yours as he dragged your through the mess of people, who themselves were messes. Drunk, high or simply energised, the leering looks shot your way made everything worse. _Why now? Why did you have to cry now? In front of all these people…_

The cold air outside the club made you gasp as it slapped against warm skin. You were gulping between shaky breaths, trying to calm down before he could see. The thunderous echoes of the fight were stampeding in your mind, flashing through with enough vivid force to make you wince and curl in on yourself.

At your side, he let out a long, quaking breath that plumed in the cold night air. His eyes scanned the street and decided on the best route to begin the walk home. Still holding your hand, he stepped away, only to be held back. You were stock still, too distracted to move, barely able to contain the hiccupping your crying had brought on. When he turned around, his brows pinched together.

“Hey, what’s wro-?”

“Nothing,” you choked into your hand, gathering your sleeves to wipe away the tears. “Nothing, I just need a minute.”

You couldn’t look at him. Not right now, not when he’d take this to heart and blame himself. He knew about the yelling thing. He’d picked that specific club because it was usually quieter. Regret and guilt very quickly took up residence in his gut, sitting as a heavy and immovable boulder. A choked sob left you, reined in by a ragged breath as the tears began to flow in earnest. Each silvery streak they drew over your cheeks was mirrored in him as cuts to his chest. This wasn’t his fault, but it felt like it.

Lean, careful arms wrapped around your shoulders. When his chest bumped against your nose, you focused on the scent of him; of tart green apples and the fizzing, bitter burn of gunpowder. He was begging in whispers, focused on consoling you.

“Please don’t cry… I’m sorry I yelled, I just-I didn’t want us to get caught up in that.”

“I know, I know… It wasn’t you… S’not your fault.”

Your assurances fell on deaf ears. They barely tapped the surface of his spinning, blurred mind. A faint sniff next to your ear gave him away. You wanted to pull away, to cup his cheeks and wipe away the tears he always hid. Right now, you needed him, and he needed you. Your arms wrapped around him, squeezing him against you as he shook with shuddered breaths. The noises were already fading. The bellows of the men were subsiding, leaving you with the simpler sounds of tandem breathing and the distant thrum of traffic in the city at night.


	3. Ignis

Everything ached. His back, from the stiff council chairs; his hand, from the endless, crushing grip he’d kept on his pen and his head, from the same argument that had consumed meetings as of late. The last week had revolved solely around this issue, and the council were refusing to budge. Ignis had tried, really, he had, to make them see that this was not a problem that would go away and that they had to act.

Unrest stirred in the outer regions, threatening to roll towards Insomnia like a storm.

It was more than just the possibility of riots; it was the inhuman quality of life that existed in the rest of the kingdom. It was the blind eye they all insisted on turning.

The meeting adjourned two hours later than planned, and two days too late for Ignis. His patience had worn thin, gnawed by the wolves at that table.

However, he was an advisor. He was expected to keep a cool head; to exemplify the logic and grace of the monarch he served. He was under pressure. Too much pressure, for too long and in the same spot. The thought of another meeting made his stomach turn as he strode through the Citadel’s hallways. Polished marble clicked under his heels, struck with more force than he intended.

Once locked into the sanctuary of his office, he threw the papers against the desk.

_You must convince them._

_But how? They won’t listen to reason! They’ve already made their decision!_

_Unmake it then! Change their minds!_

“Oh for fucks sake!” he cursed the ceiling.

His hands were fixed on his hips. The foot that had been tapping against the floor slammed into the stone heel-first. Chest heaving as he tried to regain control, the string of muttered curses left him in a bitter torrent. His venomous, rampaging words were directed at everything in his path; the desk, the window, the vase. It was ragged in frustration, but smooth and sharp as a knife in its delivery.

He hadn’t seen you come in, nor had he heard you. He hadn’t noticed, even as you felt your eyes heat. Dread settled into your stomach like pitch, filling you up as it weighed you down. The hitch in your breath gave you away.

He turned with ferocity. The green eyes that fixed on you were hard and forbidding. This was his territory, and you’d chosen the wrong time to show up uninvited.

“What now?!”

Ignis never raised his voice. He never lost his composure. It was something you’d found immensely attractive, and crucially reassuring, about him. There were times his tongue was sharper than he intended, but these were usually aimed at a deserving target. Carefully chosen words were used as throwing knives and only ever unleashed when appropriate.

The sheer volume of his voice, the strain it put in his neck… It had been enough for the first hot tear to run down your cheek. His expression remained hard and unforgiving. Cold as stone. He wanted everything out. He wanted the very thoughts to leave his mind and this knotting rage to dissolve again. He wanted it gone. He wanted you gone.

You hurried from the room, fingernails digging into your palms as the tears began to flow. You’d barely made it to the end of the corridor when the door of his office slammed again. The elevator was in your sights, and thankfully empty. You sprinted the last few metres, needing to find somewhere to hide.

“Y/N.”

His tone carried more discipline than intended. He slipped into the elevator, just as the doors closed, and deftly pressed a button to keep you both there and in private. He kept his distance, eyes searching you as he pieced together his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he began, quiet and low with sincerity. “I am. I didn’t mean to-.”

“I know you didn’t,” you hiccupped. You sniffed and tried your best to keep your voice from shaking. “It’s no-not your fault.”

“Nor is it yours.” He closed the gap between you and sighed deeply. “Things got the better of both of us.”

You nodded, sniffling as you wiped away the already rarer tears. His gloved finger tilted your chin up, making you look at him. Sharp features worked around soft eyes, concern and apologies written in every line of his irises. He produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted away the streaks on your face.

He leant down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead; his attempt to cement his sincerity.

The doors of the elevator burst open, jolting the two of you apart in fright. A few weary and distracted office workers filed in, clutching their briefcases and coffees. As the elevator began to ascend, you felt his hand take yours in a gentle squeeze. His pale lips hinted at a soft, barely-there smile. He meant it though.

He meant this.


	4. Gladiolus

If there was one thing that had always surprised and pleased you about your boyfriend, it was how soft-spoken he was. Hushed tones, gentle whispers, barely-there vocals were all he ever used of that deep voice of his. Sure, he got louder when he was excited, or in a crowd, with friends; anywhere he needed heard. Gladio was a serial mumbler, to be honest. Luckily, he rarely refused to repeat himself, so nothing went amiss.

Gladio’s voice was the smoking gun, but not the shot.

However, given the appropriate provocation, his words became heated. Tone would tell you far more than volume, as he rarely rose into shouting territory. He was patient enough to avoid such outbursts. Not to mention trained to within an inch of his life to control himself at all time. He also despised conflict, ironically. Dawn till dusk was laced with the singing of steels, the grunts of effort and the hard grit of a sparring pit. By the end of his day, all he really wanted was to do was soften and slow. By day he was bronze, amber. By night, he was honey, whiskey, sunrise and sunset.

When his words came with fire, embers, sparking with bitterness, it was daunting. Even if you weren’t on the receiving end.

If there was one thing he’d never tolerate it was Noctis slacking off without good reason. He allowed for his darker weeks; the ones that made him sluggish and sunken. He allowed for physical ailments and the toll they took. He was fully aware of the cramps colder weather sent through Noctis’ scarred back.

Laziness for the sake of laziness got on his nerves like nothing else.

You were at the side of the training hall, quietly unpacking your bag as you hummed. You’d only just heard the hard grating of sword against shield when it began.

“Up your game.”

The tone was flat and usually you’d have thought nothing of it. But something was different; some unspoken threat sat behind his gritted teeth. You slowed down, reaching into your bag to grab a bottle of water. Chills ran down your spine and through your hand simultaneously.

“Get your head out of your ass!”

“I’m trying,” Noctis said in an exasperated sigh. Your eyes widened.

“Not hard enough,” Gladio spat, words thick and bitter. “Don’t pull this bullshit on me. Do better.”

Your every move slowed to a crawl. Dread was building in your gut as you silently pleaded, hoping that somehow Noctis would just know. _Don’t, just don’t, say that word to him, you know what it-_

“Whatever.”

_Oh shit._

“Why don’t you stop fucking around and actually get some work done? You wanna die out there?”

His boots struck the floor with more force, pounding through the empty hall as a foreboding pulse. You made your way to the weapons stand, careful to avoid eye contact. Now was not the time. Plucking your weapon of choice from the rack, you turned around and walked towards a space. Only problem was that you’d have to walk right by them.

Your focus snagged on them, watching as Noctis casually ruffled his hair and shifted his weight. The final straw came when he pulled out his phone.

Gladio was burning, raging, but too well conditioned to let it out. His eyes flashed dangerously, glaring from under a deep frown. He gritted his teeth. Audibly seething, he marched to where you were. You hadn’t realised how close your chosen spot was to his kit bag.

He was muttering a dark string of curses when he almost tore the zip open, searching the bag for something that only infuriated him the longer it stayed hidden. A short glance was enough for him to catch you. Cheeks hot, and tears threatening to spill, you clenched your jaw and fixed on the ground. The hardness in his expression softened immediately.

He’d done what he was most scared of doing. He’d scared you, upset you, made you look at him the way everyone else did.

“Hey,” he called, soft as smoke. You held your eyes wide open, hoping the tears would dry before they could escape. The calloused thumb swiping across your cheek started the flow you were desperate to avoid. “Look, I’m sorry, I forgot-.”

“No, it’s fine,” you shook your head. He wore a soft frown, parted lips and molten eyes that swam with apologies. _He doesn’t need to apologise._ “Toughen up buttercup, right?”

“Not when I’m being an asshole.”

Strong, careful arms drew you into a warm chest. He planted a gentle kiss to your hair before resting his chin on your head.

“Uh, Gladio?”

“Mmh?”

“You’re kinda…sweaty.”

He huffed a laugh before drawing away, tilting your chin up to read your face. A thump came from the other end of the training hall. Noct had sat down on the floor, face glued to his phone. The amber side-eye made you raise a brow. Gladio sighed and rested his head against yours.

“I’m gonna go patch things up with Charmless, and we’ve got a pretty packed day but… How about dinner? We’ll go to that nice place downtown? My treat.”

At your slow nod, he squeezed you in his hug and kissed your cheek. He took a deep breath before walking to join Noct, leaving with a little more of the softness you recognised worn on his sleeve. He’d fix this, as always.


End file.
